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Waters Flooded With Life

By CONNIE ROGERS

Published: January 5, 2003

''SWIM in the Amazon? Sure, I swim every day.'' This was the cheerful response of Patrícia Spina-Ribeiro to our first question when we arrived at the floating Uakari Lodge in Mamirauá, a reserve at the heart of the Amazon River basin in Brazil.

Lithe and petite, she looked more like a water sprite than manager of the lodge. ''Actually, swimming is not officially recommended,'' she added.

We climbed out of the small outboard that had carried us an hour west from the river town of Tefé, where we'd flown from Manaus. The lodge's five bungalows and dining area were strung out along a walkway like a necklace of white baubles on the coffee-colored river.

As we stood up on the dock in front of the reception area, the full weight of the heat hit us. It was midmorning on the Equator in July. The idea of a plunge in the river, which curled serenely through the green forest and made a graceful U turn at the dock, was hugely tempting. ''I think I'll wait,'' I heard myself say.

Mamirauá is one of the richest aquatic systems in the world, with hundreds of lakes and shifting channels at the confluence of the Japurá and (as the Amazon above Manaus is known) the Solimões.

The peaceful-looking current in front of us is an underwater highway full of piranha, electric eels, stingrays, manatees, dolphins, water snakes and hundreds of other creatures of questionable motivation. Crocodilians are more numerous here than anywhere else in the world, and 10- to 15-foot black caiman laze about on the forest edges. My husband, Ted, lifted our bags out of the boat and seemed equally willing to wait.

''How about a quick tour of the forest before lunch?'' Patrícia asked. The shade looked inviting so we handed her our luggage and climbed into a shallow canoe just large enough to hold João, our local guide, and the two of us sitting single file. João had a deep furrow in his brow that provided a roof for his smile and the powerful upper body of someone who'd spent his life propelling himself in a boat.

With a few strokes, he took us to the forest edge, where vines hung thickly over low trees like dust covers in a warehouse of oddly shaped furniture. He lifted a leafy flap and we floated right into the treetops. Our feet wouldn't touch the ground for the next five days.

Mamirauá, about the size of Connecticut, is the largest flooded forest reserve in the world and a place I'd never heard of until John Robinson, the head of International Conservation at the Wildlife Conservation Society in the Bronx, told me it had some of the best wildlife viewing in the Amazon.

Beginning in January, the river swells up with melting snow from the Andes and 10 feet of seasonal rains. It overflows its banks and rises up to 40 feet in the forest by May. The river becomes a limitless viewing platform in the rain-forest canopy. Its peak fruiting season is from April to July, and howler monkeys, three-toed sloths, umbrella birds and giant tambaqui fish come to stuff themselves at the feast.

At first I felt a little disoriented in this weird, watery world. We were at nose level with orchids and bromeliads and face to face with cutter ants carrying tiny leaf flags up a tree instead of across the forest floor.

Even the boat was strange. With just an inch of freeboard, it could have been a floating leaf. We glided silently by a sleeping red howler monkey with his voice box tucked into his chest like a rotund little Buddha in deep meditation.

All around us, things were behaving in unlikely ways. We saw a fish spring three feet out of the water to eat fruit from a tree. We saw lizards run on water.

Hoatzin birds with blue faces and orange crests ate leaves and hissed like snakes when we came near. Their babies have claws on their wings and can climb trees before they can fly. Strange as it all seemed, I knew it was natural. In a constantly shifting landscape, there are countless new niches and evolution is working overtime to mold creatures to fill them.

I'd come to see one of the strangest, the white uakari monkey with a brilliant red face. It lives only here, and Mamirauá was created to protect its home range. João says it looks so human that his fellow villagers refuse to hunt it for food. And its scarlet face isn't from embarrassment but to advertise its good health.

I COULDN'T search for them just then. We were paddling so close to furry, fist-size tarantulas nestled in knotholes, I went on red alert waiting for João to hit a tree and knock one into my lap. But he swung the boat skillfully behind him with well-practiced precision. I began to relax and sink down into my seat until I was flat on my back. Looking straight up, I fell into a kaleidoscope of green leaves and shifting shapes. The air was humid and suffused with the shimmering half-light of a shallow, sunstruck pool.

Seconds later I sat bolt upright. A barrage of chirps and chicks, whistles and screeches broke out all around us as if the forest were staging a fire drill. The birds joined in the alarm call and the bushes burst into life as I saw bits and pieces of the fleeing monkeys flashing by. All of a sudden a tribe of red-faced trolls stood upright in the treetops -- the uakari must have been there hidden the whole time -- and looked ready to hurl missiles down onto our heads. A tiny howler sped over a branch in front of us and dove into a tree for cover. The crisis -- a harpy eagle -- flew away, frustrated in its hunt for something small and tasty.